engaged

i kill 3 beetles while i wait for my wired asshole to relax. one of the 3 is BIG and lies squashed between my legs, looking up at me while im trying to get in the mood, its creepy legs, contorted in a neat splat, twitching occasionally. it's a real turn off. theyre coming up through the dried out drains of rickety campsite troff and bucket plumbing. there's no graffiti in the cell. what shame. shame on the scrub of a cleaner's brush, censoring these public message boards. these open forums of slander and frustration. no memo of the best night you never remembered, or the happy hour register of 2006: jez bartley? here. sarah miller? here. sexy-marvin? here. stan-the-man? was ere '06. we were all there. no scribbled midnight confession, no scrawled biro-political slogans, no carved tribal allegiance to the team, no obnoxious outbursts of hate in tipex. not even a pencil cock & balls. the shame of those blank surfaces. this cold come down. lock jaw, nausea, flashback. dizzy: but then i see a light at the end of the tunnel. a motion! a motion! stay with it. holding that frequency of concentration so tight - it's damn near meditation. desperate, summoning my pineal gland to astral project cosmic rays to uranus. i dream of uncorking a bottle of champaign - of squeezing the last toothpaste from the tube - of unscrewing the lid of a sealed new jar - of babies' heads popping out of vaginas - of the sun being eclipsed by the moon - when - like one of god's reluctant rewards - a miraculous tremor in the bowels. i brace myself and then comes the quake. report - trajectory impact: minimal. debris: easily managed with sparing sheets. thank xenu. there's only 5 leaves left. i pull out my black bic chisel tip and give the toilet bowl my signature. art. it's a joke. toilet humour. my territory.

when you're taking a shit, your asshole is the star of the show.